


Delicate

by themagicalocelot



Category: DC Cinematic Universe, Justice League (2017)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-04 11:37:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12770256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themagicalocelot/pseuds/themagicalocelot
Summary: DCEU-verse, JL fic. Bruce has a little bit of a crush on Superman, so to speak. He tries to make it clear pretty early on, you know, after bringing him back from the dead. Like, that very same night. Over drinks. Clark isn't sure what to think of all this.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (title is based on the taylor swift song ngl)

_this ain’t for the best_

_my reputation’s never been worse so_

_you must like me for me_

 

When Clark wakes up to see Bruce Wayne’s face, undoubtedly teary-eyed behind the cowl and blinking like he’s seen the sun for the first time, it’s actually really flattering. He smiles a little, trying to stretch the corners of his mouth, because, hey, he’s been _dead_ for the most part of a year now. He must’ve made a weird face, because Bruce just keeps staring at him without saying anything, as if he’s dead again.

Clark can feel the energy from the motherbox is surging through him, and everything fades in and out of x-ray vision. His heart starts racing, and he gets the urge to just fly up to the sun. That’s the Superman equivalent to a morning jog. He flies up and back down and finally settles himself back on the ground, on Earth, in front of his monument. He walks around it, reading all the notes and smelling all the flowers and touching the smooth granite of the monument blocks, and he’s glad he’s back.

He suddenly notices a metal man standing next to Wonder Woman and a couple of other people, with an arm that’s transforming into a canon and taking over him the same way Clark’s defenses are taking over him and his body can’t help but tell him to go on the offensive. He really doesn’t want to go on the offensive—

Long story short, he had a fight with his new teammates. None of that’s particularly surprising when it comes to him and Bruce, though. Bruce invites him to his super secret lair for a drink, because that’s the first thing people need when they’re raised from the dead.

“So I see we’ve got friends now,” Clark says, wandering around the Batcave, looking at all the tech, all the suits, including the one Bruce had used to try to kill him not so long ago.

“It’s a temporary arrangement,” Bruce replies, eyes carefully following him.

“For a temporary problem?” Clark suddenly turns around, the tone in his voice slightly more hostile than intended.

“With you around, yes.” Bruce grits his teeth, and then smiles. He’s not very good at it.

For a second, Clark considers leaving. Not for any particular reason, just because of the fact that him and Bruce had never done this. Talk. He’d never been the biggest fan of office small talk at The Daily Planet, which reminds him, he’s still technically dead, and he doesn’t have a second job, so might as well make the most of this one.

He moves towards Bruce so quickly Bruce jumps when he realizes that Clark is right next to him, pouring himself another drink and sitting down at the table.

“Would you like to know more about the team?” Bruce asks, awkwardly shuffling a chair over next to him and settling down into the seat. “I’ve got files, I can show you what they can do, who they are—”

“No, that’s fine.” He has the gist of things, besides, the little fight they all had in front of his monument was a more than stellar introduction to their powers. “They’re all gifted. They seem nice. Kid in the red, especially, I like him. And it was nice to see Diana again. I guess she’s with us now,” Clark says.

Bruce chuckles. “Yeah, I guess she is.” He leans forward to grab the bottle of whiskey and his arm slides towards Clark’s slightly, wrists pressing into each other. He quickly pulls back. “Sorry.”

“That’s alright,” Clark says, and it comes out in his diplomatic, Superman-voice. Bruce looks a little disappointed afterwards.

“You know you don’t have to stay here,” Bruce says, liquid slowly filling up his glass. “I know I’m not very good company, and you have better things to do.”

“Like what?”

“Saving a cat from a tree. Going back to Kansas to water your crops. Seeing Lois. I don’t know, I don’t know why you’re here—”

Clark stares at Bruce, and for the first time he notices that he looks a little flushed. His words are also ever so slightly stretched out in a way they usually aren’t. He knows he shouldn’t do this, but he uses his x-ray vision on Bruce and comes to the conclusion that he might be a little tipsy. But rather than stop him right in his tracks, he can’t help but to push further.

“Bruce, we’re friends,” Clark says, and the word feels a little strange on his tongue. “And you invited me over. Would’ve been rude to say no.”

“Southern manners,” Bruce says, amused. He leans back in his chair and drinks down his glass. Bottoms up. He puts the glass back down and looks into his hands. “Friends don’t try to kill each other, though.”

Ah. So this is what it’s all about. Clark pushes further even when he knows he shouldn’t, again.

“I thought we were past that.” He tries to gauge Bruce’s reaction, which is impressively stone cold. He’s still looking at the glass, held between his hands, as he spins it around.

“No,” Bruce finally says. “I’m not. This is all my fault.”

“The fact that we’re no longer at odds?" 

“The fact that we even were to begin with.” Bruce stops spinning the glass and grips it, hard. He squeezes tight, and says, “I killed—”

“You didn’t,” Clark says. 

“I did.”

“No.”

Bruce nearly _growls_ , but he realizes that he can’t fight Clark on this, especially considering the point he’s trying to make. He clenches his fists on the table and Clark lays a hand on his right hand. He does it so quick even he even surprises himself when he notices. He doesn’t pull away, and looks right at Bruce without even turning a muscle on his neck. Beneath his hand, he feels Bruce’s relaxing, and he slips his fingers in between his.

“Friends don’t do this,” Bruce says slowly, and Clark doesn’t have to use his powers to feel Bruce’s pulse racing with his thumb over his wrist. He feels it, too, the heat in his own face, and it’s not from the whiskey.

He gently pulls back, and peels himself off his seat. He feels an urge to explain himself, but the problem with that is that even he doesn’t know what came over him. He gets caught off-guard when suddenly he notices that Bruce is standing right in front of him, face to face, cheeks flushed a deep red, popping out from all that black he’s wearing. The grey vest he has on looks a little tight in his chest, as well, and Clark doesn’t know why he’s focusing on all these things right now.

“Thank you for coming,” Bruce spells out each word as if he’s talking to a child “and for talking to me. It took an alien invasion for the others to even _look_ at me, after what happened. Even Diana… kept her distance until the very last minute.”

“Don’t underestimate the power of hit-pieces written in The Daily Planet,” Clark replies, and Bruce smiles a little bit. He doesn’t regret writing those articles, because they certainly weren’t in a position to simply _talk_ back then, and it was the only way to get his message across. But like he said, they’re past that now, and he doesn’t need Bruce dragging all that weight around, either.

“Sounds like you had a bit of a PR crisis. The Bat of Gotham. No longer America’s sweetheart.”

Bruce shrugs. “As long as the job gets done. The Bat doesn’t care what the world thinks.” He looks a little sleepy now, and Clark suddenly remembers that Bruce just drank three glasses of whiskey in the space of about forty minutes.

“Get some rest,” Clark says. “The League’s meeting in the morning to strategize. They’re going to need you. Sober.”

Bruce blinks, head tilting to the side, as if he’s genuinely surprised that Clark noticed. “The League?”

“Isn’t that what we’re called?”

“… No. We didn’t come up with a name,” Bruce says, confused, and then breaks into a silly grin. “Of course, Superman comes back to life and comes up with the perfect name for the new team that he _just_ met, the one that I spent months researching, tracking down, getting together. Do you even know their names?”

“Well, we weren’t given a whole lot of time for introductions. As I recall, you were the one who snagged me away for a private invitation to your Batcave, just as I was trying to introduce myself to the Cyborg,” Clark says.

“Not that you’re complaining,” Bruce says, dead serious, eyes sharp now. He takes a step forward, and the mood in the room shifts.

“Not that I’m complaining,” Clark repeats, standing firmly in place.

“We never really had a formal introduction, you know, back then.” Bruce looks up at him, biting his lip as he stares at Clark’s face. It’s hard to pinpoint what exactly he’s looking at, but his gaze moves around everywhere _but_ his eyes.

“Kryptonite,” Clark says, taking a breath and looking up. He doesn’t know how to feel about this, the way Bruce is coming on to him. He’s not even pushing anymore, it’s just all on him. “You had a lot of it, and I had to stop you. That was our formal introduction.”

“Are you going to stop me now,” Bruce whispers under his breath, and he’s sliding a hand on his chest, tracing upwards to touch his chin. Clark’s still not looking, because he doesn’t know what he’d do if he did, so he closes his eyes and tries to hold his ground.

“Yes.” He finally looks at Bruce, gently taking his hand off. “Sorry, I—please get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

And that’s it. He walks off and exits the room, only to realize he doesn’t actually know how to get out of the Batcave. He bumps into Alfred in another room and he must have been walking fast, because Alfted nearly topples over.

“Alfred, I am so sorry, sorry—” Clark rushes to catch him, steadying him back on his feet. Alfred’s holding a wrench in his hand and glasses in the other. He puts his glasses back on quickly, adjusting them on the brink of his nose.

“No, it’s my fault, Mr. Kent. I wasn’t looking at where I was going.”

“I was hoping you’d point me to the door,” Clark asks, politely, and tries to offer a reassuring smile when Alfred gives him a worried look.

“I certainly hope Mr. Wayne hasn’t done anything too terrible this time,” Alfred replies, pointing at the exit with his wrench. “Although, don’t be afraid to say that he has.” 

Clark chuckles a little, but keeps his mouth shut, because that’s the type of person he was raised to be. Don’t speak ill of others, especially not to their family. “No. We had a good time. Thank you, Alfred. I’ll see you tomorrow." 

He finally leaves the cave, and once he’s hit with the cold air outside, it takes several deep breaths for him to finally get his head right. Between the two of them, he isn’t sure whether Bruce was the one who made a mistake, or if it was him this time. The sinking feeling in his gut tells him that it may be him.

 

_is it cool that I said all that_

_is it too soon to do this yet_

_‘cause I know that it’s delicate_


	2. Chapter 2

_dive bar on the east side, where you at?_

_phone lights up my nightstand in the black_

_come here, you can meet me in the back_

 

Turns out, Bruce was right about Steppenwolf being a temporary problem. They had it together, the team, and really all they needed was one last knockout punch to settle the score once and for all. Clark was happy to be the one to deliver; it was a refreshing welcome back into superheroics. It was different this time around—saving the world with friends was actually, kind of fun.

And as for the first real social occasion in the land of the living (not counting that night in the Batcave), Clark ends up quite enjoying getting to know the team. Lois invites them all for dinner at their place, even though Clark isn’t sure where things are headed between them, being dead had her shaken for quite some time. They’re taking things slow for now, although they still value each others’ company more than anything. Clark is tasked with cooking duties, because Lois can’t cook for the life of her. He’s surprised that she looks healthy. Ma must’ve dropped by a couple of times to give her tips, it’s the kind of thing she would do. It also just so happens that she ends up being invited to a journalism conference for the weekend, which leaves him to be sole host of the party.

“Thank you for the dinner, Clark,” Diana says, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “It’s lovely.”

Barry’s grabbing the ladle for more of the beef stew, and there’s still a pile of the potato bake sitting on his plate. Clark did make sure to quadruple the portion sizes for the kid—let’s just say it was a two-day task of meal prep.

“Sorry, um,” Barry stammers, in the middle of shoving forkfuls of beef and potatoes into his mouth. “Can I just officially say that this, this entire meal is delicious? Possibly the best home-cooked meal I’ve had in a _long_ time. I mean when I was younger my mom used to make me something similar, but—”

“It’s not bad,” Arthur says, taking a sip of his wine. “Probably one of the better meals I’ve had on land. Although, could use a little more salt.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Clark says, smiling. He takes back some of the empty plates back to the kitchen and sees Victor standing in the hallway, standing still. It was nice of him to come, considering the fact that he doesn’t really need to eat. Clark can’t help but feel like he hasn’t done enough to make him feel welcome. 

“Don’t worry about me. Just updating my systems,” Victor says, and Clark can see the red eye glowing from underneath his varsity jacket. 

Clark nods, because he understands the whole aversion-to-social-situations thing. “Well, you know where to find us.” He turns to the kitchen but hears Victor’s voice again.

“Just so you know, you’ve had three missed calls tonight. One voice mail.”

Clark sets the plates down and slowly walks back out and into the hallway. His phone had been purposely left on silent. Victor looks right at him, a little ominous for Clark’s tastes, to be honest, but okay.

“Did you…”

“I don’t snoop,” Victor says. “It’s just very hard to tune out. And speaking of—” 

“I got it this time,” Clark sighs, and after a quick x-ray into his room he sees his phone lighting up like a firework. He walks past Victor, brushing against the hard metal of his shoulder, distinctly cold underneath the jacket. He turns around once more before heading into his room. “Just so you know, I know the feeling, being overwhelmed by your senses. It’s not about focus, it’s about letting everything go, and then choosing what to pay attention to. It’s a big world, make it smaller.”

Victor doesn’t respond. He’s standing still again, and Clark decides that he’s the one being tuned out this time. Fair enough, the man’s got a lot going on inside him. He picks up the phone quickly, and by the way Bruce answers, it seems like he got there just in time.

“Come over,” Bruce says, voice heavy.

“Actually, no. I’ve got plans for tonight,” Clark replies, nonchalant. “And those plans are currently in progress.”

Bruce huffs. “I told you, I was busy. Even if I came, everyone would be gone by then.”

“And that wasn’t your intention?” Clark says, and he wishes he bit his tongue. Bruce replies with a small hum. And, okay, maybe it’s time to acknowledge the little dance they’ve been doing around each other ever since that night in the Batcave.

-

During the morning meeting, Bruce looked a little angrier than he usually does—hungover, yes, but also something else. The rest of the team didn’t seem to pick up on it, apart from Diana, who challenged Bruce on every decision he made, but that could’ve been remnants of past friction. Bruce was also a lot less starry-eyed at Clark that morning (guess the whole novelty of rising from the dead had worn off) and for the most part, that was fine. Clark could live with maintaining a civil partnership between them.

But then the big battle with Steppenwolf happened, and everyone was mostly left unscathed except for Bruce who limped out of the fight with three broken ribs and a dislocated knee. It was actually worse than it sounded. Arthur swam off into the sea the minute they finished the fight, Barry was far too distracting to be around an operating table so they sent him away. So it was up to him, Diana and Victor to keep tabs on him during his recovery.

One night, while just getting back up on his feet, Bruce insisted a sparring match against Clark. It was a fairly terrible idea to begin with, but Bruce was insistent on proving himself.

“Don’t you have, um, people, for this kind of thing?” Clark said, taking his stance in front of a very injured, very unlikely-to-even-walk Bruce. Out of costume, he might add. 

“Unfortunately, the kids are all busy right now,” Bruce said, dishing out several jabs. Clark knew to slow down, but it was weird for him to try to approximate normal human speed and reflexes. He dodged first few, unsure what Bruce wanted him to do. “They grow up too fast.”

Clark scrunched his nose. “You beat up kids.” 

“My kids,” Bruce clarified, as if that made it better. He tried again, with several punches and elbows, and while Clark was distracted with the mental image of Bruce fighting _children_ , he gets him in a headlock from behind.

Clark felt him breathing down his neck, and his warm chest pressed against his back, sweat dripping down. He snapped back into it and carefully elbows him in the ribs on his left side, where nothing was currently broken or healing. He spun around and kicked his waist to get him off balance, before quickly realizing that he might have used a little more than normal human strength, but Bruce got him by the arms and kneed him right in his stomach.

It didn’t hurt, of course, but Bruce started crying in pain and Clark realized that he had just used his injured knee.

“Well, that wasn’t very clever,” Clark said, steadying Bruce on the floor as he held onto him. He helped Bruce straighten out his leg, before rolling up his trouser bottoms to examine the knee. “That’s going to add a couple more weeks to your recovery.”

Bruce slid his hand on Clark’s, still firmly gripped onto his leg. Clark looked at him with a questioning glance, but not a disapproving one. He didn’t know what took over him, but he slipped his other hand underneath Bruce’s thigh, gently massaging his muscles in long, thick strokes.

“I just wanted to prove to myself that I could still do this,” Bruce said, still holding onto Clark’s hand. Clark squeezed on a tight muscle, and Bruce did his best to try to keep a straight face. He blinked, hard, several times until he finally let out a groan.

“Is that enough then,” Clark said, eyes locked on him. He bent forwards a little, pushing himself up on his knees until he was hovering over Bruce. He moved his legs so that he was crouching over him, and if he had moved even an inch more, Bruce would’ve just melted into the floor.

“Almost,” Bruce said, reaching out for Clark’s chest, again. Yeah, if it wasn’t obvious then it pretty much is now—Clark definitely had him on a string.

-

So when they’re speaking on the phone a week later, in the middle of what was supposed to be the League’s first formal get-together, Clark finds it hard to resist toying with him a little.

“I told you, god, the Joker was making a mess of Gotham and I couldn’t leave,” Bruce says. “Also Solomon Grundy came out of nowhere, and I had to handle that, too." 

“That’s no excuse, Bruce. Like you said, the team that you spent months researching, tracking down, getting together… they’re all counting on you,” Clark says. “Besides, what about your kids? Didn’t you raise them for this kind of situation?”

“Occupied,” Bruce says, exasperated. “Look, I’ll make it up to you and the League, we can all throw a party at the manor if that’s what you want—”

“I don’t like parties,” Clark says.

“You’re—” Bruce starts his complaint, but very quickly gives it up. “Fine, no parties, just. When can I see you again?”

It’s the last line that makes him smile. For all his brooding and huffing and playing games with him when no one’s looking, there’s a sweet hint of earnest longing in there. Like, just being in the same room is enough to make him light up. And Clark hasn’t really felt that from anyone, ever, not even Lois.

He smiles. “Well, our guests will probably be leaving soon but the door will still be open. Or, you could come through the window, your choice.”

“Okay,” Bruce says. “I’ll come.”

“Perfect,” Clark replies, and hangs up promptly. He’s lost track of time now, and decides that it’s time to show his face to his guests again. He walks back out into the hallway—no Victor to be seen—and is greeted by Barry in the dining room.

“Oh, hi there,” he says, with stacks of plates in his hands. He zaps off and returns. “Thought I’d clean up a little. Thanks again for the dinner, it was incredible, like wow.” Several more zaps back and forth—the rest can’t see it, but Clark can appreciate Barry’s more than thorough cleaning efforts. Both the kitchen and the dining room become spotless in an instant.

In the dining room, Diana’s putting her coat back on, while Arthur’s trying to pour out the last drop of wine from the bottle. Barry’s still standing in front of Clark, eyes wide and brimming with excitement.

“So, what’s the plan for the rest of the night? Movies? We could watch some Ridley Scott, or maybe George Lucas. Do you like board games? Does Superman play Monopoly, or is that not really a thing in Kansas? I assume you can’t escape capitalism, or maybe you can—”

“I think Clark’s expecting Lois tonight, right?” Diana hands him an easy ticket out of this conversation, and Clark is ready to take it until Barry interrupts again.

“I thought you said she was coming back Monday,” Barry says. Diana raises an eyebrow, and Clark knows he’s on his own now.

“Change of plans. Lois decided that the conference wasn’t as exciting as Perry had initially pitched. We were just on the phone discussing flight details for tonight,” Clark says, and by the way Barry’s nodding it seems like that will do for now. “She should be back before midnight.”

“Well, don’t let us distract you,” Arthur says, finally rising from the table. “It was nice of you to do all this. I’d invite you to mine, but…”

“Swimming isn’t exactly my forte,” Barry says, genuinely disappointed.

“I’d like to come visit,” Victor suddenly says, and it’s the second time tonight that Clark gets caught off-guard by him.

“You mean, all this stuff works down there?” Arthur points at Victor’s general direction, waving his hands around. “Hate to break it to ya, bud, but water and electricity don’t usually go together.”

Barry, Victor and Arthur start getting into a very in-depth discussion about the specifics of Cyborg’s suit and whether or not it should be able to function underwater. Barry’s mostly interested in how it can be replicated, for ‘scientific purposes’ as he states. Diana ushers them out the door as they keep on talking, and mouths a gentle ‘sorry’ as she turns around on the way out.

Clark smiles at her and closes the door shut. Finally. He’s forgotten the value of peace and quiet. Ever since they pulled him out of his coffin, his life has been one loud explosion to the next. He sits down on his couch and decides to read the paper and watch some television simultaneously—there’s so much he needs to catch up on. Some alarming headlines include ‘Lex Luthor Escapes Prison’ and ‘Kyrptonite Found in the Philippines?’ He’d rather not know, to be honest.

After about an hour and a half of watching crap television, he hears a faint scurrying noise outside the balcony, which is slightly worrying considering that Lois’ apartment is twelve whole floors above the ground. He hears a knock on the window, but before he can even consider getting out of his seat, it clicks open and a Bruce Wayne squeezes himself through. 

“I was joking,” Clark says, still on the sofa, with some ads for dishwasher soap playing in the background.

“You sounded very serious,” Bruce replies, smoothing out his white shirt and black tie, before closing the window behind him. “You look like you’re making valuable use of your downtime. Still unemployed, I see.”

“I’ll find a job,” Clark says, watching as Bruce comes over. He gestures at the sofa and Clark shrugs, scooting over to make room for him. “Where have you been?”

“Me? Oh, this. Just, work stuff. You know I have a company to run, every now and then.” He takes off his tie and throws it on the ground.

Clark looks at him very seriously. “We’re not going to make out like teenagers on this sofa.”

“What was the point of me climbing through your window then?” Bruce says, pointing back at the window. He gets distracted as his eyes start to wander around the apartment. “Nice place, by the way. Not what I expected.”

“I do recall telling you that the door was open,” Clark replies, curiously watching Bruce. “And thank you. It’s Lois’, technically. We lived together before I died.”

“Huh.” He turns back towards him, eyes looking down from Clark’s face. “And now you still live together, and you’re still…" 

“No,” Clark replies, firmly. “We’re not. But we are, living together.”

“Oh,” Bruce says. He looks up, smiling.

“I feel like we need to talk,” Clark says, very carefully. He keeps his distance but extends an arm onto Bruce’s knee, almost healed now (x-ray vision confirmed). “Really, Bruce. I need you to think through this, if it’s a good idea, especially with the League in your hands now.” He can hear himself now, morphing into Superman once again, and he can see the drop in Bruce’s face, turning into the cold, calculated look he’s used to seeing on the field. His playful smile is gone now, and Clark can’t help but feel bad for him, but he knows he needed to tell him—no, remind him of the gravity of his actions, considering who they are and what they stand for. If things go south, well… they’ve seen how that could turn out.

“You’re right,” Bruce finally breaks the silence. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” He looks a little defeated now, as if trying to convince himself that he’s doing the right thing. And god, it takes one look for Clark to realize something the impossible. Heartbreak. Bruce Wayne. Two things that shouldn’t go together, but for some reason Clark has managed to do it and damn it, maybe he should just stop being so damn careful about everything. Turns out, Bruce is a lot more delicate than he looks. Or maybe, Clark should stop treating him like he is.

He grabs hold of Bruce’s shoulders and climbs over him, pushing him back on the sofa until his head is leaning up on the edge of the armrest. Bruce looks a little startled at first, but his hands quickly end up on Clark’s chest (why does he keep going for the same spot) as he starts tugging on the buttons of his plaid shirt.

“Actually, I’ve changed my mind,” Clark says, exhaling.

“Oh, jesus, not again,” Bruce groans and looks away, ready to take his hands off Clark’s perfectly rock-solid chest for the _third_ time this past couple of weeks.

“No, I mean I changed my mind on the other thing. Talking.” Clark smiles and catches Bruce’s gaze again, eyes wide with relief. Clark starts laughing as Bruce tries to push him away. He doesn’t budge, but it’s cute watching Bruce try. He leans forward and hovers over his face, as if looking at it for the first time. Funny how many times they’ve physically come this close to each other, but it feels nothing like this. No, this feels like something else entirely.

Bruce manages to pop off all the buttons on Clark’s shirt and lets it hang on him, half open, as he slides his hands around his waist. Clark settles on him, knees apart on either side, hands holding onto the armrest that Bruce’s head is resting on. They look at each other, neither of them blinking. For all of Bruce’s flirting and trying over the weeks, Clark can’t stand the tension in the air and finally goes in for a kiss. It’s odd at first, their noses touch and Bruce’s lips feel light and airy, barely there, but when their mouths lock in Clark quickly finds out that Bruce’s tongue is _very_ present. Bruce’s hands make their way behind his neck, thumbs pressing into all the right pressure points and Clark lets out a satisfied little hum. He feels Bruce smile, and kisses him again and again, and the night goes on with the two of them folding into a pile of each other.

 

_long night, with your hands up in my hair_

_echoes of your footsteps on the stairs_

_stay here, honey, I don't wanna share_


	3. Chapter 3

_third floor on the west side, me and you_

_handsome, you're a mansion with a view_

_do the girls back home touch you like I do?_

 

Nothing really changes, in the weeks following. It’s surprisingly easy to maintain whatever it is Clark and Bruce started that night, one of the reasons being the fact that Clark can still hide behind being, technically, deceased. And Bruce definitely doesn’t have a shortage of apartments to stay at, or money to throw at him whenever he needs. Sometimes he’s tempted to go overboard, and that’s when Clark gently reminds him that no, thank you, please don’t buy me another house or another bank, let me stay perfectly content in your bed, your arms, your body. 

There’s an uptick in Superman sightings in Gotham, and Batman in Metropolis. No one thinks anything of it other than the fact that the two heroes are now comrades, post-League. It makes for great press, actually. Some fringe news outlets in Metropolis occasionally publish one of those, ‘Should We Trust the Bat?’ pieces, but The Daily Planet has so far done relatively positive coverage of them. With less crime around, who can complain?

Clark’s walking around in Gotham one afternoon, because Bruce is in a meeting, and they have dinner plans for the night. He figures that he’d buy a bottle of wine for the two of them to share before the meal, but he starts second-guessing himself because Bruce probably has a pretty impressive shelf himself, and nothing Clark can afford would be able to match up with that. He considers flowers, because flowers are romantic, and Lois used to like them, but this is Bruce. And they’ve only been _loosely_ together for a couple of weeks now, so he doesn’t want to be presumptuous. He ends up standing in front of the shelves for a few minutes, confused, until he hears a familiar voice beside him.

“Clark?” the voice says, and it’s Lois. “What are you doing?” He quickly turns towards her and sees that she’s holding two cups of coffee in both hands, handbag slung across her body and hair in a messy, but perfect, bun.

“Lois,” and a breath, relieved. He goes in for a hug without even thinking, and breathes in her familiar warmth. She awkwardly wraps her arms around him as the coffee cups crash together, no spillage, thankfully.

“Sorry, I.” He pulls away, clearing his throat before looking at her again. “I don’t actually know what I’m doing.” It’s funny how easily he can admit things to her, things that he didn’t even think he felt before he hears himself saying them out loud.

She looks at him, earnest and slightly pitiful. “Oh, Clark,” she says. The two of them end up heading out to the park for a walk, and Clark discovers that she’s been in Gotham for the past week trying to do some research on ex-Arkham employees. In the past, Clark would have felt obligated to warn her when things sounded potentially dangerous, but he knows better now than to think that that would actually stop her. It also helps that he can hear her heartbeat from miles away, and the two of them knew that if anything happened, he’d be there. Nothing has changed.

“So has Bruce set you up with a new place yet?” Lois asks, over the crunch of leaves and roadside traffic in the background. Clark shoots a look at her, and she shrugs defensively. “I just assumed, since you haven’t been home for so long. And Clark, I really don’t mind, you know the apartment’s there for you whenever you need it but you’re also free to spend your nights elsewhere if that’s what you want. I just hope he’s treating you well.”

“He is,” Clark says, a little too quickly.

“Then what’s wrong?” she asks.

He sighs, and it’s really difficult not to tell the truth when looking into her eyes. So he does, and tells her about the way he still feels slightly out of place sometimes, not with the League and not even with Bruce, no. The problem is Clark Kent. It’s like he’s forgotten how to be himself, in this big, strange, world. Lois is sympathetic, but readily suggests that he get his old job back, because that might give him a sense of identity and purpose, she tells him, and she has a point. Of course she’s right, she always is.

Clark has spent far too much time riding on the high of the romance, that he’s forgotten how to actually _live a life_. If there’s one thing Bruce and Lois share in common, it’s that they’re both practical people, who give practical solutions to existential problems. Clark drops off Lois just a couple blocks away from Arkham, just to keep a safe distance, and makes sure that she has everything ready. He would’ve taken her straight there, but she makes it clear that sight of Superman flying in the front door would not be the best way to establish a rapport between her and whoever it is she’s there to see. 

He spends the next hour getting ready for his dinner at Bruce’s penthouse suite downtown. It’s been home for the past two days, after the lake house, and the apartment in Metropolis, and also the mansion two weeks ago—it’s been a whirlwind of a time. He’s hoping to settle down somewhere a little more permanently now. He also has a bouquet of roses sitting on the table for Bruce. Lois had convinced him to get them. _It’s what Clark Kent would do._

Bruce arrives right on time, shrugging off his coat by the door as he walks in on Clark adjusting his glasses while pacing back and forth in the room.

“You’re not thinking of running out on our first dinner date, now, are you?” Bruce says, a casual smirk forming on his lips, but Clark hears his heartbeat picking up a little. 

Clark chuckles under his breath. “I’m afraid not. Been looking forward to it too much.”

“Good,” Bruce says, more decisively this time. He moves towards Clark and swoops in on him, hands perfectly placed behind the other man’s neck. He leans in for a kiss, and Clark has to remind himself to breathe because Bruce looks and feels _hungry_ right now and he’s not making an effort to hide it.

“What’s wrong,” Bruce whispers, lips ghosting the bottom of Clark’s ear.

“I didn’t—”

“I know when you’re thinking,” Bruce pecks the skin of his neck, soft and supple. “Know when you’re thinking too much, you get tense.”

Clark wraps his hands around Bruce’s waist and tips his head up, tries moving his neck around as Bruce’s mouth keeps roaming. “I wanted to ask you for a favour.” He closes his eyes.

Bruce’s eyes dart up, adjusting himself in between Clark’s arms. “Now we’re talking.” He’s intrigued enough to pause the kissing, and Clark looks back down at him.

“I was wondering if you could set up the documents, for Clark Kent. I think I’m ready to start working again.”

Bruce nearly laughs at this, and Clark doesn’t know what’s so funny, because it took a lot out of him to ask. He’s not one to usually ask for favours, from anyone. He knew Bruce well enough to know that most things could be done easily, but Clark’s always careful of overstepping, or asking for too much too quickly. It’s a lot of work, faking someone’s death, and even more work faking someone’s coming-back-to-life after an open casket funeral and an obituary in one of America’s biggest newspapers.

“Took you long enough,” Bruce says. Clark seems even more confused. “I’ve had the papers ready since the day you _died_. Just say the word and you can come strolling back into The Daily Planet as if you never left.”

He really shouldn’t be getting used to this, Bruce’s excessive- _ness_ in every aspect of life, but there’s something endearing and addicting about it and Clark knows that this kind of showering affection can’t last forever. But that doesn’t mean he can’t savour it while it’s still here.

They realize that they only have about thirty minutes to go before the booking at the restaurant, and Gotham’s rush hour has kicked in, so there was really no chance of them arriving on time in Bruce’s Lamborghini (Bruce was insistent on going in the Lamborghini). But Bruce then accurately points out that Clark can fly at the speed of light, and Clark isn’t even sure how he managed to forget that himself. It might have been something to do with the fact that Bruce ended up on top of him, twenty minutes to their dinner, pressed against the marble kitchen counter with the sunset slowly creeping up behind them. Clark doesn’t know what it is about Bruce that makes him lose his senses sometimes, makes everything come flooding in all at once: the sound of traffic, tires screeching to a halt the same time Bruce unbuckles his belt, orange and red rays flooding in his vision as the shadow drops down under his hips, Bruce’s lips warm like the sun around his— _god_ , the sun feels warm, it’s like he can feel every drop of light and ray being absorbed by his naked skin.

He can hear Bruce breathing, like he loves it, _wants_ it even when he has all of it right down, down his throat, and he feels his tongue moving along with waves of Gotham river pushing, swaying and splashing back and forth to the vibrations of ships in the harbor. His hands are on Bruce’s shoulders and neck below him, and he’s careful, still, because he could choke him if he held on too tight (although Bruce has tried asking in the past, the answer was always a strict _no_ ) but there’s enough pressure to hold him there, because he’s not going anywhere, not until Clark finishes. And when he comes close, he doesn’t even say it, not even a warning for Bruce because the jolt goes up from his thighs to his spine and Clark is left feeling weak, spilling into his mouth as Bruce sucks him clean as he swallows methodically, twice.

“I don’t think we should go to dinner like this,” Clark says, panting, body completely open in the face of the last few glimmers of sunlight going down Gotham. It’s weird to think that Bruce Wayne just sucked him off in front of the entirety of Gotham, twenty-seven stories up. Bruce gets back up and follows Clark’s eye-line, then turns around to the windows behind him.

“Don’t worry, tinted on the outside,” Bruce reassures him, coming in closer just to hold him, and Clark lets him settle his weight on top of his chest.

“You’re very famous, and you tend to attract the wrong type of press. I’d rather not resurface in the tabloids not looking my best,” Clark continues, ignoring Bruce’s earlier comment.

“You mean looking like you just had sex with me,” Bruce says, voice low. 

“I bought some wine,” Clark says, and feels Bruce smiling on the crook of his neck.

He hums. “How thoughtful of you.” 

“It’s from the grocery store.” Clark reaches back on the counter to show Bruce, who’s feigning a look of being impressed. He also zips to the table and back to pick up the bouquet of roses. “And these, are also for you.”

“I forgot I was dating someone from the Midwest,” Bruce says, eyes earnest. “Sure, I’ll just cancel my reservations while you fly us out to a barn in Kansas.”

Clark doesn’t respond to that, and both of them just look at each other without another word. Bruce holds up a finger and picks up his phone to dial the restaurant, while Clark nods and starts putting his clothes back on. Well, the logic goes as follows: fancy dinner dates aren’t exactly Clark’s speed, they won't be worrying about privacy in the middle-of-nowhere-Kansas, and he hasn’t seen Ma in a while since Bruce bought back her house, and since they’ve been spending the past few weeks in penthouse after penthouse, a change of scenery might be just what they need right now.

 

 _dark jeans and your nikes_ , _look at you_

_oh damn, never seen that color blue_

_just think of the fun things we could do_

_'cause I like you_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for reading! I really enjoyed writing this - I'll be expanding this into a verse of its own and I've got an idea for a continuation of sorts, so hope you stick around. :)

**Author's Note:**

> you can also come find me and this fic on tumblr! please support, comment, reblog, etc :) https://tyrellwells.tumblr.com/post/167672797747/delicate


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